


A City Without Walls

by Sidney Sussex (SidneySussex)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidneySussex/pseuds/Sidney%20Sussex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WARNING for character death.  Detective Inspector Lestrade is dying.  At the same time, Sherlock is making it worthwhile to live.  Rated for themes.  De-anon from kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._
> 
>  _If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._
> 
>  _De-anon from kinkmeme prompt:_
> 
>  _"Lestrade/Sherlock. When Lestrade's death comes, he meets it in Sherlock's arms."_

For once, it's John who notices first.

It wouldn't normally be, of course, but Sherlock is still focused on the case, connections flashing across his neurons like wildfire, and after all, John's the one with medical training.

So he's the one who realizes that, even though they only ran a few city blocks, even though that was nearly ten minutes ago, Detective Inspector Lestrade is still short of breath.

He doesn't say anything right away. This is a crime scene, and he's already out of place, only here because Sherlock insists. There's no sense in his getting in the way. So he stands back and watches as the inspector cuffs their suspect in rapid, efficient movements and Sherlock weaves in and around them both, narrating a constant stream of derisive comments on the mistakes the killer made and how he could have avoided detection if he'd really wanted to.

By the time Lestrade straightens and admonishes, "Sherlock," he's got his breath back. Mostly, anyway. He doesn't continue his sentence, though, and John wonders about that. It's what makes him approach Lestrade after the suspect has been driven off in a patrol car, making sure that Sherlock is elsewhere before he places a hand on the inspector's shoulder and asks, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Lestrade looks distracted.

John doesn't want to be a bother, so he lets the matter drop.

* * *

Lestrade drives them back to Baker Street in one of the panda cars, so Mrs. Hudson makes him come inside for a cup of tea. He protests weakly that there is paperwork to file and that he should be getting home, but Mrs. Hudson is a force to be reckoned with and it isn't as though he has anyone waiting for him when he leaves, so eventually, he agrees.

He and Mrs. Hudson have gotten on quite well ever since the first drugs bust. Nowadays, when he needs to coerce Sherlock into doing something, he just knocks. She lets him in, along with anyone he chooses to bring for the "investigation," and usually there are biscuits afterward.

There are biscuits now, too, and Mrs. Hudson presses a small wrapped packet of them upon him when he leaves, fussing over the bags under his eyes and his too-pale skin. He should get more sleep, she says, and Lestrade thinks that's a bit rich in front of Sherlock.

* * *

A week or so later, Sherlock's mobile buzzes and he makes John pick it up.

"Lestrade. Says he needs you at the Yard."

Sherlock puts away his most recent experiment (cases are _much_ more interesting), wraps his coat around himself and pauses, one hand on the door, waiting for John to catch on, grab his jacket and follow. It's a foregone conclusion by now that when there's a case, they go together.

When they arrive, Lestrade closes his office door behind them and spreads papers and photographs out over the desk; here, a body with patterned cuts across the shoulders; here, a row of severed fingers, each with a different colour of nail polish (all applied after death, of course). A serial killer, leaving messages in code, and this is glorious, this is _beautiful_ –

Lestrade smiles wearily, says he hopes Sherlock and the killer will be very happy together, and gathers everything into a file. "Come on," he says, "you'll want to take a look at the bodies."

Sherlock can't think of anything he wants more.

They go from bag to crinkling bag, sliding down the zippers, and John and Lestrade stand back while he makes his observations. All told, it's a rather impressive body count.

It makes him smile. John would have objected if he'd said so, would have told him that was awful or unacceptable or more than a bit Not Good, but so are most of the things that make Sherlock smile. And it's not the body count _per se_ , it's that someone, some completely, utterly _fascinating_ person, has gone to all the trouble of choosing these bodies, manipulating them, making everything _just right_ …

He's starting to get slightly disapproving looks from John anyway, because it's not all right to look this happy about severed fingers (apparently), so he puts away his magnifying glass and tucks the plastic evidence envelopes into his coat pocket.

"Done here," he announces.

Lestrade follows them both out of the morgue, John and Sherlock arguing under their breath about whether or not it's important to care about people if they're already dead. They have very different opinions on the matter, and they're both quite sure in their convictions, which is why it takes them a moment to notice when the Detective Inspector is no longer with them.

John looks around just in time to see him crumple to the floor.

Then it's only seconds before John has him sitting against the wall, disoriented, and he's interrogating Lestrade – when did he last eat? sleep? how has he been feeling lately? And then John takes in, really takes in, his friend's pale face, the exhausted rings under his eyes, the way he was out of breath on their last case.

Lestrade waves him away, some hastily-muttered excuse about being busy and forgetting lunch and shouldn't John be accustomed to that by now, living with Sherlock? He promises to eat and John withdraws, although it's obvious from his face that he doesn't really believe Lestrade.

Only then does he realize that Sherlock is pacing back and forth, hands twitching and jumping as though he can't quite find a place for them, blinking rapidly and looking at John – the wall – the floor – his hands – John – everywhere but at Lestrade.

John's only ever seen him this agitated once before, and that time there was a pool and a bomb and a psychopath and John covered in Semtex, and Sherlock had a gun and his hands twitched just the way they're twitching now.

"Are you okay?"

John had to ask the same thing on the night with the psychopath and the gun, and it was just as ludicrous then as it is now, because last time it was John in the Semtex vest, and this time it's Lestrade against the wall and grey-faced.

Last time, Sherlock seemed surprised by the question. "Yeah – fine – I'm fine. Fine."

This time, he doesn't answer at all.

* * *

When the call comes, John is on shift at the clinic and Sherlock is in Lestrade's office, haranguing him about a missing finger. He raises his voice over the ringing of the phone, and only stops shouting when Lestrade says, softly, "I have to take this."

After answering, Lestrade is silent for a long time. Sherlock, distracted for once from the case files, watches the phone slip lower and lower in his hands, as if he wants to drop it, but can't. Finally, he nods, more for himself than for whomever is on the other end, and says, "Right. I see."

More silence.

Then, "Thank you. Yes. I will."

Sherlock leaves, then, before Lestrade can finish the call. He isn't stupid – he's seen the incoming number and he's seen his friend's face fall and he's heard the terrible, quiet voice the man has never used before.

 _Right. I see._

He doesn't want to know.

* * *

Lestrade sends a brown manila envelope in the mail, addressed to Sherlock. Inside, cold and impersonal, are brittle, carbon-copy pages, all with Lestrade's name at the top; lists of medical tests, neat little numbers printed beside each one. Results.

If John were home, Sherlock could ask about each one, but he's at the clinic again, so Sherlock flips open his laptop (password: obvious, and he's cracked it in twenty seconds) and looks them up individually.

 _Not good. Not good. Not good._

He looks up the acronym, four tiny letters stamped in the wide, white box at the bottom of the page.

 _Not good._

Before he closes the laptop, Sherlock clears the Internet history. He clears it again, and then a third time, as if erasing his searches could erase the reason for them, then lowers the lid and hides the empty screen from his view.

He was right the first time. He didn't want to know.

He thinks, _that's irrational_. Knowing changes nothing.

Still, he holds the envelope over the half-invisible flame of his Bunsen burner until the ash is fine and slippery on the table. When it's gone, when it's all gone, the remnants of the too-thin paper smeared over his fingertips, he curls up on the couch, facing away from everything, and pretends to be bored, because bored is better, _anything_ is better, than the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

That's the day he starts counting. _Day one_ , he calls it. His brain laughs at him, mocks him, and tries to call it something else ( _Day three sixty-five_ , and counting down), but he refuses. _Median survival less than one year_ , it says, and he's never hated it so much as he argues, _You don't know that_.

Lestrade is anything but average.

He forgets to tell John. Rather, he considers telling John, but he can't get the words unstuck in his throat and something dark and twisted settles in his stomach when he tries, so he deletes the memory of trying and John never gets told.

They order takeaway. Sherlock doesn't eat.

John makes an early night of it. Sherlock doesn't sleep.

Life goes on.

* * *

Sherlock solves the serial killer case (the missing finger had green nail polish, obviously, had to be) and Lestrade calls them in on another one, a double homicide in Hackney.

They do the usual dance of deduction, Sherlock dashing from one place to the next, magnifying glass flashing in the sunlight as he picks out misplaced threads and falsified footprints. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make this look ordinary," he calls out.

Lestrade is leaning against the side of a patrol car with John, keeping one eye on Sherlock and another on a quietly-fuming Anderson. He's paler than ever, and quieter, too, as he shouts back to Sherlock. "So tell me why it's not ordinary!"

At the sound of his voice, John makes up his mind. He's been shooting sideways glances at the Detective Inspector all day, not sure he likes what his practised eyes are seeing.

"You don't look well."

Lestrade laughs like it's the best joke he's heard all day.

John's confusion shows on his face, and slowly, Lestrade's grin fades as he realizes.

"He didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?"

But Lestrade is off, striding across the crime scene and not particularly caring about Anderson's indignant shout. When he reaches Sherlock, John is close behind.

"You _bastard_ ," Lestrade says. "You utter, utter bastard."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. He gets these sorts of comments often – Lestrade and John are no exception, though when they say it, it's usually true – but he's not sure what the cause of it is this time.

"You didn't tell him."

Realization across Sherlock's face, quickly hidden by disdain. "Was I supposed to?"

"You could have done him the courtesy."

"So could you."

"Tell me _what_ , for God's sake?"

Both men turn on the spot to face John. Sherlock breaks the silence.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he says coldly, "is dying."

* * *

They're in a cab home from the crime scene and John's face is worn and creased with thoughts of the conversation with Lestrade. The conversation only the two of them have had, because as soon as Sherlock said his piece, he turned his back on both of them and stalked back to the chalk outlines on the street, ignoring the inspector's startled and somewhat curse-filled exclamation.

He thinks about that again, feeling his muscles tighten as he flushes with anger. Sherlock is fucking _unbelievable_.

"You're upset," the detective observes from the seat next to John.

"Your deductions have let you down if you think 'upset' covers it." The words are sharp, each one bitten off as John speaks it.

"Oh, I know you're upset, but it's not just that, you're _angry_ ," Sherlock says.

"You're damn right."

"Why?"

The magnitude of his flatmate's idiocy is beyond John's ability to comprehend, much less describe, and he gapes wordlessly for a few seconds before he's able to gather his thoughts.

"I know friends are beneath you," he says, finally, and anyone who knew him in Afghanistan would recognize the flat and even tone, "but don't you even care? _Don't you damn well even care_?"

From the other side of the cab, Sherlock makes a strangled sound.

John catches sight of his face before he turns it to the window and is instantly, profoundly sorry he has opened his mouth. He's never seen Sherlock look like that, raw and afraid, barriers locked down behind his eyes. It's _terrifying_.

And Sherlock's known for days. Known and said nothing, every word and every gesture a façade.

How could he not have noticed?

They don't speak for the rest of the ride.

* * *

That night, Lestrade is hot and cold, flushed and shivering, and he can't sleep.

There are drugs for that, flat, white tablets in an amber vial, but they sit unopened in his bathroom cabinet. Before he takes something like that, he's going to _need_ it. He's not a weak man; he's been with the Metropolitan Police for a long time. He's been knocked out, he's been shot at (and they haven't always missed by much), he's been held at knifepoint, and he's damned if he's going to let a fever get the best of him.

So he's awake for the quiet _snick_ of the lock downstairs, the creak of a faint tread on the steps. Silence follows; he feels his body go from heated to chilled again, and he lies shivering in the soundlessness for a minute before curiosity overcomes him and he slides out from under the sheets to pad softly into the living room.

Sherlock is standing by the window, staring out over the London lights. He doesn't look away when Lestrade comes into the room, just steps slightly aside to allow the other man to join him. Together, then, they survey the domain Lestrade is sworn to protect, and he shivers and shivers until Sherlock drapes a too-narrow suit jacket over his shoulders and stands closer, eyes still on the darkened streets below.

He wakes up in the morning on the couch, wrapped in the suit jacket and a blanket. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

"How often do you do this?" he asks, another night. The shivering has gone, probably because he isn't quite so feverish right now, but it might also have something to do with Sherlock's jacket, which is folded around him again. It has occurred to Lestrade that he is in his own flat and he has jackets of his own in the closet, but he hasn't mentioned this to Sherlock.

"When I can't sleep," the detective answers, the shifting shadows of the curtains playing across his face.

"Do you ever sleep?"

The look Lestrade gets is answer enough.

"Does John know you come here?"

"He knows I go. Not where."

"And he doesn't mind?"

"I haven't asked."

He drops the subject. It's enough that Sherlock is here.

Lestrade looks back out at the city lights, leaning forward slightly so that his forehead rests on the cool glass. It seems a good way to fall asleep, between the nighttime fog that creeps in over London and the tall, silent man to his left, so he draws the suit jacket tighter around himself, letting his eyes close and his head drop to his chest.

He didn't sleep for days after the diagnosis, terrified that if he didn't pay attention to every breath, he might just stop and never start again. He knew it wouldn't really happen, even then, but that didn't make the nights spent sweating through his sheets, timing his breathing to the deafening rhythm of his own heartbeat, any easier.

Fear isn't rational, but the most irrational part of it all is that it's somehow made easier by the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

There's a first time for everything.

* * *

Lestrade drops in at 221B with a file Sherlock has requested. The detective could have come for it himself, but Lestrade is tired of everyone's treating him as if he were going to crumble at the slightest touch, and it's good to be away from the stifling fog of sympathy that has settled over his team at the Yard. John makes tea for all of them and they sit and talk for a while about football. Sherlock is very pointedly silent.

But it can't stay away forever, and it all comes crashing down when John asks about treatment. He doesn't mean to shatter the mood, false though it is, but he's a doctor and he can't stand feeling like he needs to do something, anything, to _fix_ things.

There isn't much that can be done. Most of the usual treatments don't work on what Lestrade has, and he doesn't want to weaken himself with drugs that will only make it worse. He pulls up his sleeves to show John a row of (bruised, purpling; Sherlock winces) alternating injection sites – they're not doing nothing – but that's all. No grand attempts at a cure. Just the slight chance of a few more weeks at the end.

Sherlock subconsciously runs his hands over his own arms. He bears marks that match Lestrade's.

When John goes into the kitchen to ( _lean against the wall, one hand pressed to his face, and try to come to terms with this_ ) fetch more tea, Lestrade gestures to Sherlock's hand, which is still smoothing the sleeve over his old needle scars.

"What will you do when I'm not here to stop you?" he sighs. Just asking the question seems to age him.

"Nothing," Sherlock tells him.

"Sherlock, we both know you – "

" _Nothing_ ," he hisses, and it's fiercer than either of them was expecting.

Poor repayment, Sherlock thinks, if when the needles fail to save Lestrade, he uses them to bring himself down as well.


	3. Chapter 3

There is a lot of grey in the Superintendent's office, and a lot of photographs of her children. Sherlock would probably be dissecting the officer's life right now, _he's going to need glasses, she's more talented with her guitar than you realize_. Most people don't take kindly to that sort of thing, which is why the Superintendent will never know the contributions Sherlock makes to Lestrade's closed-case record and the increasingly-impressive annual reports he turns in.

He's had to sit down. Lestrade is not normally comfortable in this office, and he usually prefers to stand while delivering his reports, but the bone pain in his legs these days makes that more difficult than it used to be. They warned him about this when he refused the chemotherapy, told him that there would be pain, but the trade-off wasn't worth it. He has patches instead, delivering painkiller the same way they once delivered nicotine. So not that much has changed, really.

She breezes in behind him, closing her office door and casually dropping a sheaf of papers on her desk.

"Detective Inspector," she says, and he does stand, just for a moment, to greet her.

"I have your letter," she begins, "and I have to say it's a disappointment. You're one of our best men, Inspector, and your record gets better every year."

He ducks his head, shy at the compliment, shyer still because it's really Sherlock's, not his.

"I'm sorry you'll be leaving us."

 _I'm sorry I'll be going_ , he thinks, and oh, the double meaning of the words is bitter.

"Would you mind if – you didn't state a reason for your resignation in the letter…"

No. He tried, but it was all too stark in black and white, and he couldn't stop thinking about the fine, dusty sheets of carbon-copy paper in the envelope he gave to Sherlock. It made it difficult to breathe, so he deleted the sentences one by one until only a few sanitized words remained. That helped, a little.

"Just between us, would you mind telling me what prompted you to write this?"

 _Detective Inspector Lestrade_ , he hears Sherlock's voice, _is dying_.

He almost says it just for the reaction (and for a moment, thinks he understands why Sherlock does it), but common sense catches up to him in time and he stares at the Superintendent's desk.

"Did you read the other letter?" he asks instead.

"The recommendation?"

He nods.

"I did. Inspector, as you know, your opinion carries a lot of weight with me. If you think Gregson is the best choice to replace you, I'll make a strong case for it with the Senior Management Team. But I have to ask – why not Dimmock? He's technically next in line."

"Dimmock is a good detective, and when he's ready, he'll do an excellent job. But right now, Gregson is the better choice. We need him."

What he doesn't say is, _Sherlock wouldn't work with Dimmock_.

He walks out of the Superintendent's office a free man, but it's not by choice, and it doesn't feel as good as he's always been told it would.

* * *

When he gets home, his flat is emptier than it has ever been. He supposes it has always been this way, not quite enough furniture in the living room, not quite enough things to make it personal. It's just that it never seemed to matter before, because he spent all his time in his office. Brief interludes of sleep were hardly enough to warrant decorating.

And now that he'll be here all the time, it seems futile to start.

Ordinarily, he would be going over paperwork. On the blindingly rare occasion that he didn't feel the need to bring work home, he would have a drink (probably because of something Sherlock's done) and maybe try to watch something on the battered television that sometimes fuzzes into static. Neither option will work for him today, because he hasn't got any paperwork anymore, and alcohol is frowned upon as long as he keeps having the injections.

He'd clean the flat, but he doesn't own enough to make a mess.

The gnawing pain low in the long bones of his legs reminds him that he's still standing, and he remedies that with the help of the couch. He could always see if there's a match on. There won't be – the season ended last month – but he can pretend the gesture has some meaning.

Instead, he sits, does nothing and doesn't bother to pretend.

It's like coming up from drowning when he hears the door swing open. He stopped going to the trouble of locking it weeks ago; he tells himself it's because he has nothing to steal anyway, and the excuse is just believable enough to get away with. Sherlock's quiet step is familiar by now from nights of lying awake and wondering if it will come, and he thinks briefly to himself, _but it isn't nighttime yet_. Sherlock only ever shows up when it's dark.

A folder, tossed carelessly onto the coffee table so that it slides to a halt in front of Lestrade. It's followed by Sherlock, flopping just as carelessly down onto the couch next to him, sparing him barely a glance before he asks, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What do you think?" nodding at the folder. It's a case file, Lestrade realizes, though it bears no NSY stamp. _Must be a private case_.

He flips it open to the first page, takes in the photographs and hastily-scribbled notes, and starts to laugh.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock sounds annoyed.

"It's just…"

"What?"

"Sherlock Holmes bringing _me_ a case."

Sherlock sniffs. "Unless you've got anything more interesting, of course," he replies coolly.

Lestrade can't help but chuckle as he turns his attention back to Sherlock's folder, and just like that, the flat is all right again. He can take the days, if the evenings are going to be like this.

Are they, though? He thinks of nights when Sherlock doesn't come at all.

He can't ask. Sherlock doesn't know how much he relies on this, how much he needs it to keep going. _One day at a time_ , he reminds himself. It's how he already thinks of everything else; he might as well add Sherlock to the list.

"So," he says, coming back to the folder, "does this mean you're not the world's only consulting detective anymore?"

It's worth the scathing look he gets for saying it.

* * *

He sleeps more now, and needs it. In the end, that's what fills most of his days – ten, twelve hours and never feeling rested at the end of it. It's good that he resigned when he did.

Nights, he tries to save, just in case. Sherlock sometimes comes and sometimes doesn't, and Lestrade's life goes on being irrational, because it's the nights when Sherlock's there that he can fall into an exhausted sleep again. When he's alone, the walls are just too close, the night too empty.

The team invites him out to pub night. They haven't seen him since he turned in his badge and shield, so they don't know there's no way he can manage it. He goes anyway, and invites John and Sherlock along as well. It turns out John has already been invited. Sherlock hasn't.

Everyone greets him when he walks in, calling his name too loudly and grinning to mask the way their faces fall when they first see him. He knows how he looks, grey and thin and so much older than he was just a few weeks ago. He's no Sherlock Holmes, but they aren't skilled liars, either. They really are happy to see him, though, and the feeling is entirely mutual.

He makes it through one round – "just water, thanks" – and nearly through the second before the leaden feeling in his limbs, spun cotton wrapped around his brain that tells him that his body needs to sleep. _Traitor_ , he thinks, and orders coffee, and if John notices that it's Sherlock's support that's keeping the inspector from falling asleep in his chair, he doesn't say a word.

They get up to leave, all three of them, but John is in the middle of a particularly emphatic argument about northern soul music with Anderson, who, it turns out, actually has interests beyond irritating the hell out of Sherlock. "Stay," the detective tells him.

"Right, I'll – see you at home, yeah?"

"Mmm," is Sherlock's absent-minded agreement. _Maybe._

At his flat, Lestrade knows he should be sleeping, feels the tendrils of it creeping up around him, but there's something he needs to say to Sherlock, if he can only remember. Sherlock should be at home, with John, not here, and the fact that he isn't…

"Thank you," he tries, the words fuzzy at their edges.

Sherlock looks confused.

"You don't have to be here."

"Perfectly adequate place to think," Sherlock says, "and _you_ don't make a fuss about the milk."

They both remember then that Sherlock has a flatmate. It's something Lestrade has almost forgotten, now that he never sees them together on cases, now that he never goes to Baker Street. He's a little envious, truth be told, of the fact that Sherlock – for all his self-professed sociopathy – has someone waiting for him no matter where he goes. _It must feel safe_ , he thinks, except for Sherlock, it's probably more of an annoyance.

It's not John he's thinking of when he says, softly, "The only thing I never wanted to be was alone."

"It's the only thing I ever wanted," Sherlock says.

They exchange a glance, and both of them start to laugh, because _life_ , life is ridiculous, and here they are, and the only person standing between Lestrade and dying alone is a sociopath who doesn't want a friend.

For the first time, Sherlock is still there when he wakes up. They don't discuss it. Lestrade makes two cups of coffee instead of just the one, and finds the mug discarded under a pile of books on the table after Sherlock has left.

He's there in the evening, too, and they discuss the plausibility of various murder weapons for his most recent case. Lestrade falls asleep on the couch, almost mid-gesture demonstrating the arc of an impact, and Sherlock solves the case in about twenty minutes. He spends the rest of the night on the other side of the couch, thinking.

On the third day, when Lestrade wakes up, Sherlock is conducting an experiment in his kitchen. He has no idea where the supplies came from, and if any of them belong to him, he doesn't want to know. Instead, he asks about 221B.

"It's not going anywhere," says Sherlock. "And you haven't shouted at me yet. Normally I'm being shouted at by now."

"You do this in a lot of people's flats?"

"Just two."

He can picture the shouting; no one else keeps Sherlock in line the way John does. Well – John and Mrs. Hudson. The thought of the landlady makes him smile. She's always been kind to him, countless offers of tea and biscuits and, occasionally, something to take the edge off after a particularly difficult visit to his consulting detective. Will she wonder about his absence? he thinks. Will she wonder about Sherlock's?

She probably won't miss the parade of body parts and bullet holes, at any rate.

"So you're doing your experiments here now?"

"Obviously."

"What about John?" And the question isn't about experiments, it's about _everything_ , the cases, Sherlock's constant presence in his flat, all of it.

"John can wait."

They ignore the undercurrent, the second meaning to the words. _You can't._


	4. Chapter 4

The day comes when Lestrade is too tired and in too much pain to focus properly on Sherlock's cases. In a way, it doesn't matter, he thinks. It's not as though Sherlock ever actually needed him. But it was a beautiful fiction while it lasted, and he is sorry to see it go.

Sherlock clears away the papers, dropping the folder carelessly beside the couch and shifting himself to a chair. There's no pretext for his being here, now, and they both know it.

"You don't have to stay," Lestrade tells him.

Having Sherlock here has given him a reason to keep getting up, a reason to accept the patches and the shots, the ever-increasing numbers of pills, all strangely-shaped and hidden in the cabinet where he can pretend for most of the day that they aren't there. It's why he still gets dressed and goes down to the shops (though nowadays he mostly drops a tin of coffee and the latest garish murder headlines into a carrier bag and calls it good enough; he's not much interested in eating anymore, and Sherlock never has been).

He won't say it, but Sherlock is the reason he keeps trying.

But he's seen Sherlock bored; it usually results in structural damage, and if Sherlock blows up the flat, he doubts he has the time left to repair it. And the detective is busy – Gregson's got the common sense to call him in occasionally, and the private cases give him steady work.

Stupid to want him to stay.

Let him get on with things.

Sherlock is giving him a bemused look. "I know I don't."

"Look," says Lestrade, and he's more forceful now that the decision's settled in his head. "You've got work. Things to do. Just go. You don't have to keep doing this for me because I'm…"

"Because you're what?"

He waves a vague hand at the living room, where the facts are all too plainly written. Medical reports stashed in between the case files. Box of painkiller patches lying underneath the coffee table. Remnants of a cup of tea, untouched beside the couch.

Sherlock's gaze follows his gesture, and his lips twist in a bitter smile.

"Don't be stupid," he says, and though the words are caustic, his tone of voice is anything but. "Do you really think that's what this is all about?"

He sits, confused, and thinks, _of course it is_. Sherlock has never been like this before, never so _human_ –

but before he brings that thought to a conclusion, Sherlock has caught him by the shoulders – the look in his eyes is veiled, _burning_ – and touched his lips to Lestrade's, so softly they can barely feel the contact.

They sit in shock for a moment, gazes locked.

He stutters, "But – I thought – you and John – "

"Yes," Sherlock says absently, "everyone does."

"So – "

"Shut up," says Sherlock, and he's there again, warm breath, warm kiss, warm hand against Lestrade's cheek and _oh, hell_ , he's kissing back, this is so far beyond anything he's ever imagined, and the thing that strikes him the most about it is how Sherlock is being so very, very _gentle_.

And when Sherlock finally draws back again, Lestrade is whispering and he leans in close to hear it, "oh, no, oh, no, no, no…"

Brush of hand against cheek, _what's wrong?_ but Sherlock can't say it in words. He's never been very good with words that aren't deductions or denouncements.

Lestrade doesn't let go, but he meets Sherlock's eyes and asks, helpless, "Why? Why _now_?"

Then they are both left without words, but gripping one another tightly, as they realize in earnest that every second, every touch, every blink, is one closer to _no more_.

Sherlock clears his throat and says, "Well, I suppose I could have waited until you brought it up."

He's misinterpreting deliberately, and Lestrade lets him, loves him for it.

"I didn't…"

"I know."

"You're going to lose me."

"That was true before."

 _Yes,_ Lestrade thinks, _but I didn't know it._

"We're wasting time."

"No," he says, "we're not. I've had forty years of wasted time. This – " _Sherlock_ " – isn't."

Sherlock nods, then unfolds himself on the couch and wraps himself around Lestrade. It's faintly reminiscent of waking up tucked into an elegant suit jacket, crushed between his body and the cushions, and it hits him deeply, even more so than the kiss, that Sherlock really _means_ this, and has meant it for a long time.

They sit like that, rising and falling with each other's breaths, and Sherlock says quietly, "All right."

And it is.

He isn't planning to fall asleep, not ever again if he can help it, but his body betrays him (one more in a long line of betrayals, and this is the least of them), and he drifts off with Sherlock's fingers carding softly through his hair.

* * *

"I appreciate your situation, Inspector, but I'm far too busy."

For a moment, trapped in a haze of half-sleep, Lestrade thinks Sherlock means him, before remembering that it's ages since anyone's called him 'Inspector.' It's odd that that's the first thing he remembers, because the second thing is last night, and Sherlock on his lips and in his hair and all around him, and he'd have thought _that_ would be the first thing.

One arm is slung possessively around him still; the other is tucking Sherlock's mobile away into his pocket.

"Good morning," Sherlock says, and it's so normal that he finds it utterly strange.

"Was that Gregson?" he asks.

"Yes, a murder. Domestic. Dull. He can deal with it."

"You ought to go." He lets his eyes begin to slide shut again. "'s good that he's calling you in…"

"Busy," comes Sherlock's reply, his hand already coming up to smooth the silvering hair again.

It's much later when he wakes up next, sunlight falling in patches over the fabric of the couch. For once, a rainless day. He'd like to take a walk with Sherlock; John's told him Sherlock likes to wander London for hours on end, get his finger on the pulse-point of the city and dissect it to its roots. To Lestrade, half of London is nothing more than forgotten crime scenes, and he'd like to see what Sherlock sees instead.

Nowadays, though, just crossing the living room gets him out of breath. The time when he and Sherlock might have explored the streets together is well past, and it's just one of a thousand moments he's missed without ever knowing they were there.

He twists to look up at Sherlock, who hasn't moved since last night, and sees _that_ look, the one he only wears at really clever crime scenes.

"What is it?" he asks, voice low.

It takes Sherlock a moment to realize he has spoken, and then his eyes flicker downward, taking in the sunlight in Lestrade's hair, the only-just-awake brown eyes, creased face ( _worry, yes, but also laughter_ ), and only then can he reply, "Cataloguing."

"Cataloguing?" Lestrade's tone is familiar, _what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about-Sherlock_.

"You."

He waits. Sherlock will have to explain sooner or later, and when he does, the vibrations of his voice will hum through his sternum and down into Lestrade as well, and it's nice to have that to look forward to.

"There's so much of you, and all of it is different, and I haven't got it all yet."

"How long 'til you've got it all?" He opens up into a grin as he asks, because the detective's endless quest for more data is so completely familiar, and because Sherlock is looking at him like he's brand-new, like everything he does is part of some complex cosmic riddle just for them.

"Never," Sherlock whispers. "There will never be enough room on my hard drive for this."

* * *

Limbo is nice while it lasts.

He starts getting regular transfusions, which let him do a little more. He's not sure whether it's a good thing or a bad, because it's giving him more time, and time is everything. But it also means that they've decided that his own body can't keep him going anymore. He catches Sherlock texting John about it one night.

 _What would happen if they weren't doing the transfusions? SH_

 _It doesn't matter, Sherlock._

 _They won't keep doing them forever. SH_

 _They'll do them for as long as they help._

 _That's not good enough. SH_

 _I know._

They begin using words like "palliative" and "hospice" and "end-of-life," and it confuses him, because isn't that what this has been all along? He feels like his life has only just _stopped_ ending.

They want him to go to counselling, but he thinks that's ridiculous. When they press him to consider it, he promises with a solemn expression, then tells Sherlock, who mocks them mercilessly. He wonders what the counsellors might think of Sherlock Holmes.

He brings home paperwork for the first time in months, sits down with it on the couch and flips open the folder. The gesture is familiar, almost automatic, and it makes him want to laugh until he sees his own name at the top of the page and it enters his mind that, for once, it's not someone else's death he has to sign off on.

That almost seems like it should be funny, but it isn't, and that's how Sherlock finds him, shaking on the couch, struggling to breathe through mingled laughter and tears that make no sense.

Arms wrap around him, pull him close, and he shudders against the thin material of Sherlock's shirt until he's able to get a hold of himself and the helpless laughter subsides, leaving only the grief he hasn't allowed himself to feel even once since all of this began. He doesn't want it now, either, and he pushes it away, swallows it down, crushes it beneath the weight of other things, because that's almost been working for him so far and he might as well keep going.

It's only when he finally manages to force it all away that he realizes Sherlock is shaking as well, and even though he'd never give in the way Lestrade just has, the younger man's eyes are closed and his lips are pressed into a grim line.

Sherlock holds onto him for a long time.

Much later, Lestrade waves a hand in the direction of the papers. "Well, I suppose I'd better…" he says, and he picks up the pen on the coffee table, hovering over the first blank signature line. "Will you witness?"

Sherlock pulls the stack of forms out from under the pen, leaving a faint blue line along them where Lestrade's hand was too close. "You can't sign this!"

"Why?"

"They'll let you," it takes some effort to finish, " _die_."

"Yes," he nods, "I know."

Sherlock's answer is simple. "No."

"You can't make this decision."

"You can't let them do that."

"It's more what I _don't_ want them to do. Sherlock, resuscitation isn't easy. It breaks ribs, causes damage. I don't want that. And look at me, I can't _survive_ that." He's doing well, now that he's over the initial shock. Arguing with Sherlock helps. "And even if I did, I'd still have _this_. It would only happen again, and keep on happening. Count back the months, Sherlock, it's time."

They sit.

"What would you do?"

Sherlock's eyes travel to the vial of pills that hasn't yet been put away.

"Yes, I thought so too, once," Lestrade agrees, seeing his gaze. "But then… all… _this_ happened, and I can't make it end any sooner than it already has to."

He signs. Sherlock witnesses.

When he brings the paperwork back to the hospital, for the first time, Sherlock goes with him. They ask him if all of the important decisions have been made.

He looks at Sherlock and says, "Yes."


	5. Chapter 5

The red blood cells always make him feel great – like he can do absolutely anything, for a few hours at least. He supposes this is what 'healthy' feels like all of the time, but he measures on a different scale now.

When Sherlock comes to get him – Sherlock always comes now – Lestrade's grin is bright. "Let's go celebrate," he says.

"Celebrate what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Let's just do it. Go out for lunch or something." While he still can, while someone else's borrowed cells are still running through his veins and doing what his can't.

Sherlock can't think of a reason not to, so he agrees, and when he sees the energy with which Lestrade moves and the exaggerated gesture with which he hails a cab that's already waiting for them anyway, he gives in and favours the venture with one of his rare grins.

"Where to?" Lestrade asks him in the cab.

He has no idea. "Lunch?"

"Baker Street," comes the decision on a whim. "Say hello to John while we're there."

"Are you sure you can do this?"

"What the hell," says Lestrade. He's not about to tell Sherlock about the conversation with the doctors. Not about to tell him that this was the last transfusion, that he's getting too much iron and the cells aren't lasting long enough anymore. Not about to tell him that he had them push painkillers along with the transfusion this time, so that he could feel human enough to do this, because he probably never will again.

Both of them deserve a day when they can pretend conversations like that aren't necessary.

They end up at L'Ulivo on Baker Street, eating out of doors – or, rather, sitting out of doors in front of food they haven't touched, arguing about the feasibility of rare plant poisons for an untraceable murder. Sherlock, ever practical, is on a rant about oleander and aconite; Lestrade, who hasn't done the kind of research Sherlock apparently has, favours hemlock for tradition's sake. The waiter hasn't come by the table since the conversation started, the patrons near them are all looking slightly anxious, and Lestrade hasn't felt this good in months.

Sherlock texts John to come and settle the argument and he arrives in minutes, joining them at their table and asking, "Who are we killing this time?" which does nothing to ease the expressions on the other diners' faces.

He ends up eating most of Lestrade's meal, not entirely sure he trusts what Sherlock's ordered, and they move on to topics of discussion that are somewhat less terrifying. The sun slips down to cast long shadows over their table, patterning them all in gold and grey, and eventually, they walk the half a block to 221B, so close even Lestrade can manage it on the tail end of his temporary energy.

Before they leave the flat, Sherlock picks up his violin and goes into the kitchen for some extra bits of chemistry glassware. It leaves Lestrade alone on the couch, John next to him in his accustomed chair, and suddenly he needs to ask.

"John."

The doctor looks over.

"Will you look after him?"

"I think," John replies slowly, "I answered that question when I moved in here."

"Just promise, all right? He's not as… well, you know… as he seems."

"'Course I will."

"Thank you."

That's all they say about it. Mrs. Hudson climbs the stairs to say hello; they make her tea, which is a first. She's pleased to see him looking so well, which is nice to hear even if it's artificial, and there's pleasant conversation all 'round before the sun dips down below the edges of the buildings and he can't hide his weariness any longer.

They abandon the couch when they get home; it was never much more than a pretence anyway, and Sherlock curls up fully dressed around him on the bed.

"Good celebration?" Sherlock murmurs into his ear, breath ruffling a few errant strands of hair.

He doesn't answer, but the grip around him tightens anyway. They don't need words right now.

* * *

Sherlock plays the violin for him, never forgetting which pieces he loves and playing them on easier days. On those days, they sit in the living room and talk, and sometimes Lestrade laughs, and sometimes Sherlock plays, and sometimes one of them turns on the old television set and puts on a match (if it's Lestrade, and Sherlock grumbles and insults the players) or a crap reality show (if it's Sherlock, and Lestrade gets after him for his awful taste).

On harder days, he drifts in and out of wakefulness and can't quite manage the effort it would take to talk. Then, Sherlock stays with him and the violin is forgotten as they spend time wrapped up in each other. Sherlock catalogues the brush of Lestrade's hair against his lips, the small bones of his wrists inside a too-loose shirt, the way the lines in his face don't go away as much anymore when he falls asleep. Lestrade concentrates on the feel of Sherlock against him, warm and rock-solid even though he looks as though he should be neither, and if the medication does nothing for the pain now, at least he still has this.

It's a day as good as they come when Sherlock, standing by the window, plays a long and gentle piece Lestrade has never heard before, then kisses him, with none of their usual cautious hesitation. And it's perfect, he wants so much for it to be perfect, but he tries to take a breath to say so and suddenly breathing feels wrong and he's coughing and then there's blood and Sherlock's hand is on his shoulder, Sherlock's arm around him, Sherlock's on the phone, _John, John, help_ , only it can't be Sherlock, Sherlock never sounds this desperate.

He doesn't really remember what comes next, only that the hospital bed is very cold, and so thoroughly starched that it crackles when he breathes. _Breathing_ , he's breathing, so that's all right, and then he tries opening his eyes.

The lights are bright and hurt his eyes, and Sherlock's there, folded into a chair beside the bed, watching him unblinkingly for the moment he comes around – and as soon as he does, Sherlock is out of the chair and pressed against the bed, his fingers in Lestrade's hair and whispering something about his being awake.

"Yeah," he says with a grin, and tastes a faint metallic tang; there's panic for a split second before he realizes his lips are dry and cracked. "Awake."

"Don't ever… don't…"

"Imagine," smiles Lestrade, already halfway back to sleeping, "the great Sherlock Holmes, speechless."

He's asleep when the doctor comes in, takes one look at them – Sherlock is sharing the bed, wound around him like some sort of protective octopus – and goes, "Bloody hell."

"Hardly professional."

At least he has the sense to look chastened. "I'm sorry, I didn't know he had…"

"He has."

"Right, of course."

Sherlock moves aside to let the doctor work, checking bags of intravenous fluids and examining his patient. He's very good at keeping his expression blank, but he's never had to conceal his thoughts from someone like Sherlock before, and so the detective notices when he checks the monitors for vital signs and the muscles at the corners of his mouth tighten just slightly; observes when he assesses physical condition and then avoids meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"How long?" Sherlock asks, blunt because to say it gently would require more words than he is capable of forcing out without breaking his stoic façade.

The doctor gets as far as, "Well, we – " before Sherlock cuts in.

"Spare me the bedside manner; I don't need that. Give me information."

The answer is thin, grim; Sherlock has not endeared himself to the doctor, nor to anyone since they have been here. "Days."

He was expecting bad news, but – "Days?"

A nod. "At best."

It can't be true.

It can't possibly be true.

He's known all along that Lestrade was dying, but he's only just now realized that 'dying' ends.

He texts John, who came with them to the hospital, but left to finish his shift at the clinic. When he gets Sherlock's message, though, he signs out and comes straight back.

Sherlock is sitting outside the room, staring into the middle distance, and only notices John's arrival when the doctor kneels in front of him and says, "Sherlock."

He starts, tries to say _John_ , but doesn't make it past "J – " before his voice fails him and John sits down beside him with no clear idea of how to help. He's a doctor; he's seen this a hundred times before; but this time it's his friend in the hospital room, and it's Sherlock out here broken, and none of the things he was taught in medical school seem to fit even remotely.

"He's asleep," is the first thing Sherlock manages to say. "They… John, will you…"

"I'll go and check on him."

The scene is familiar, as long as John keeps from looking too closely at it. They've hung some hard-hitting pain medications – John's seen the same bags hanging over his own head on hot, dry desert days – and they're not running saline anymore, which means something he's still trying not to think about. He's reading the impersonal green numbers on the monitors when Lestrade whispers, "John."

The voice is dry-leaf brittle. John knows he's been coughing, coughing and bleeding, and every word is effort, so he bends close.

"Sherlock's right outside. I'll get him."

"John…"

He waits.

"… no more time?"

Oh, God.

He sets his jaw, shakes his head. What else can he do?

Flash of fear in the other man's eyes, but he does his best to pull together some semblance of a smile instead. "Don't," he says, stops.

John takes his hand.

"Don't tell Sherlock…" another pause, breath, he gives up on the full sentence, "… scared…"

Tighter grip.

"I won't tell him," and he wants to say more, wants to say _Don't be scared_ or _It's all right_ or something equally trivial, but he doesn't, because they seem such useless things to say, and anyway, it's not his place to say them.

"I'll go and get Sherlock," is what he ends up saying in their place, and Lestrade closes his eyes in affirmation.

Sherlock doesn't say anything at all, just moves aside the IV lines so that he can fold himself around Lestrade, breathe him in and tell himself he hasn't seen the look on John's face.


	6. Chapter 6

John phones the Yard (Lestrade's old number, only it reaches Gregson's office now) and lets them know. He and Sherlock aren't the only people who have cared about Lestrade, and it's only right to make sure his friends have the chance to see him.

Gregson comes in the next day and shakes Lestrade's hand, but it's obvious he doesn't belong here and he excuses himself quickly.

Donovan visits later on and, to her credit, she doesn't say anything about Sherlock, who is curled up in a chair next to the bed, fingers laced through Lestrade's. She talks – about work, about former colleagues, about anything, until John sees that she is speaking far too fast and tears are bright in her eyes. He takes her aside and tells her it's all right, he's not in pain, says the things he couldn't say to Lestrade and gets some satisfaction out of it. She cries anyway, and John fights back tears of his own.

Not many people come. John understands their hesitance. They knew this man as Detective Inspector Lestrade, quiet, efficient, businesslike. They've been to pub nights with him and seen him not be very good at darts, but enthusiastically. They've come in in the mornings to catch him brewing coffee double-strength, only to confess that he hasn't been home all night. They've worked with him, joked with him, and this – this isn't the man they knew.

It doesn't really matter much. Lestrade's grip on things is shaky even in his best moments, and John is fairly sure he doesn't remember most of what's gone on at all.

The monitor alarms go off in the night. Doctors come, the readings stabilize, but Sherlock hears them muttering about the forms from weeks ago, and he stands over Lestrade's bedside watching everything they do.

It can't be time yet.

He talks now, as if he needs to end all their half-finished conversations. He remembers the Bruch violin concerto Lestrade asked about a few days earlier, the hemlock that turned out not to be such a bad idea after all, even the argument about the cold case files, which happened years ago.

He's promising to sterilize his glassware when the alarms go off again.

The doctors come back. They silence the alarms, then look at Sherlock and John with grave faces.

John doesn't need to be told; he can read it for himself. He shakes his head at them and gestures to the door. He'll talk to Sherlock.

When they're gone, he turns back to his friend and finds him standing at the bed, gripping the rail for support, still talking, but the words are different now, and so is the terrible, raw voice.

He's saying, "You can't go yet, I need you, there are cases, there are crime scenes, and I haven't got all of the data yet, I still don't know what you look like when you come in from the rain, I still don't…"

John lays a hand on Sherlock's arm and stills the sudden rush of words.

"Sherlock, look at him."

He does.

"This is Lestrade. You know if you ask him to stay he will, with everything he's got, and it will _hurt_ , Sherlock, every breath, but he'll try because you asked."

Silence. Blank expression. Mask the pain.

"Is that what you really want?"

This doesn't hurt. _This doesn't hurt._

The lie usually works, has worked for weeks. Not now.

He shakes his head, unable to speak.

 _It can't be time yet_ , he's been saying. _It can't ever be time, not for this._

John lets them be, and goes to sit outside.

* * *

He's fallen asleep out there, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. It hurts his bad shoulder less than the hospital chairs, and isn't _that_ a commentary on NHS expenditures. He doesn't really know how long he's been asleep, only that the hospital corridors have a sort of sickly nighttime fluorescence to them and everything seems to have gone quiet.

Something must have woken him up. He blinks to clear his eyes, looks over at the door to the room next to him, and stops. It's open. That must be it.

Sherlock is standing in the doorway, glassy-eyed and silent and _alone_.

John takes in the rumpled suit, hollows under the eyes, hands grasping at nothing. He has no more idea how to help now than he did before, but Sherlock needs it, needs it now, and at a loss for something better, he pulls Sherlock out of the doorway and sits him against the wall as well.

For a moment, Sherlock doesn't react at all, but then he draws his knees up to his chest and curls into a ball around them, burying his face in his arms. He doesn't move another muscle, and John doesn't say anything, just wraps one arm around him and lets them sit, motionless, until they both lose track of time and John falls back into bone-weary sleep, never once letting go of Sherlock.

* * *

It's bad for the next few weeks, worse than John expected. Sherlock doesn't speak. Gregson phones three times before John starts answering Sherlock's mobile, but even when he does, all he can say is, "Not this time."

It's bad for John, too. He doesn't realize right away that every time he makes tea, he's half-expecting Lestrade to come rushing up the stairs, pulling Sherlock away with details of their next case. It doesn't seem to matter that that hasn't happened in months. Time seems to have gone backwards, frozen at the point where everything began.

He closes the door to his room sometimes, and, once, cries. Then he puts all of that away – doctor, soldier – and goes on living.

Sherlock goes into his bedroom once. John finds him sitting on the bed, contemplating the Browning that's supposed to have been hidden. He takes it away with shaking fingers, and is hardly reassured by the look Sherlock gives him – _don't be stupid_ – because even though he doesn't think it's something Sherlock would do, there are a lot of other things he hasn't thought Sherlock would do, and he's been wrong before.

He doesn't really know what it is that Sherlock and Lestrade had, but he thinks love might have been involved somewhere, and that means all the rules he's learnt about Sherlock don't apply.

There's a funeral. John goes. Sherlock doesn't. Sally Donovan gives the eulogy, but he isn't listening to the words. Instead, he's looking around at the sea of blue; it seems everyone here is from the Metropolitan Police. _Nothing but the work_ , he thinks, a little wryly. Perhaps Lestrade and Sherlock were more alike than he imagined.

When he gets home, Sherlock says, "She asked me to give the eulogy."

"What?" He's so startled by the sound of Sherlock's voice that he misses the words.

"Donovan. Asked me to give the eulogy."

That, John thinks, is strikingly more sensitive than he thought Donovan was capable of being.

"It's all right that you didn't," he begins.

"I know."

"You didn't want to – "

" _No._ " Sherlock cuts him off sharply. "John, I wanted to. Wanted to tell them all, wanted them to know what he was like, what he was _really_ like, what they never saw and never – will – "

John acts as though he hasn't noticed Sherlock's voice breaking on the words. He waits for more.

"Damn the cases, John, _damn the work_ , why couldn't I have been more – " He's searching for the words now, angrier than John has ever seen him, and it's all directed at himself. "I didn't – _don't_ – know anything about him… Donovan asked me and I… I had nothing to say…"

He remembers Sherlock in the hospital, talking to Lestrade. He remembers that Sherlock knew his favourite violin music, the football clubs he supported, the way he liked to sleep. He remembers that Sherlock could recall every conversation he and Lestrade had ever had.

He remembers delicate fingers, interlaced with sturdy ones, against the sheets, and thinks that Sherlock knew everything that mattered.

"He once told me something about you," John says.

Sherlock doesn't react, but John can tell he's listening.

"He said you were a great man."

"He was wrong."

"And he said that one day, if we were very, very lucky, you might even be a good one."

Sherlock is bitterly silent until John lays a gentle hand on his arm.

"I think he'd have been quite pleased at having been right."


End file.
